and on down the hill toward town, and the reason thereof was plain.
Glory had won by a good length of him.

Bert Rogers said something savage and set his weight upon the bit till
Flopper, snorting and disgusted--for a horse knows when he is
beaten--took shorter leaps, stiffened his front legs and stopped,
digging furrows with his feet.

Glory sailed on down the trail, scattering Mrs. Jenson's chickens and
jumping clean over a lumbering, protesting sow. "Come on--he's going
to set up the drinks!" yelled someone, and the crowd leaped from the
fence and followed.

But Glory did not stop. He whipped around the saloon, whirled past the
blacksmith shop and was headed for the mouth of the lane before anyone
understood. Then Chip, suddenly grasping the situation, dug deep with
his spurs and yelled.

"He's broken the bit--it's a runaway!"

Thus began the second race, a free-for-all dash up the lane. At the
very start they knew it was hopeless to attempt overtaking that red
streak, but they galloped a mile for good manners' sake; Cal then
pulled up.

"No use," he said. "Glory's headed for home and we ain't got the
papers to stop him. He can't hurt Weary--and the dance opens up at
six, and I've got a girl in town."

"Same here," grinned Bert. "It's after four, now."